The heat rises in distorted gold waves around fire but without fire, shimmering, twisting anything seen through it. The heat rises, rasping the air it rises through, scuffing the surface, if the air has a surface. The tall summer field is the keeper of secrets. Lie down and forget your body, forgive your body its bad cradle, its brokenness. Lie down and listen to the rasp, to heat sweep the pale, dry grass as if it were your own breathing, as if the field you've pressed your shape into is a broom in reverse, a broom being swept by the wind. Copyright © 2017 Maggie Smith. Used with permission of the author. |
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